Monarch
by Starlight's Poet
Summary: "Many monarchs have come and gone... One drowned in poison, another succumbed to flame, and yet another still slumbers in the realm of ice... But none of them stood here, as you do now. You, conqueror of adversities... Give us your answer." -Aldia, Scholar of the First Sin
1. A Lord with no Throne

_...there is no path..._

He could scarcely recall who he used to be when he first arrived in these lands. At first, they were a jumbled mess, indistinguishable from one another. They held faces, but the names were scattered and broken, and so few were they shown to him. A face belonging to a girl with closed eyes, carrying a smile befitting one of the rarest of purity, an angelic face untouched by despair nor defilement. Another was a woman with hair as pale as the glowing embers that danced around him, cut so shortly yet so wild, as if representing her wild and untamed nature. And yet another was open to him, a boy with hair as dirtied as the earth, yet bearing the softest of greens he had seen. At one point, his smile was kind and gentle, but somewhere, that smile was gone, replaced with only a cold benevolence.

The last of the faces eluded him, recalling only a face blurred out, blotched from view, and unnaturally green hair.

 _...beyond the scope of light..._

He could hardly recall anything. All he knew, for certainty, was that he was what little remained of a human being. At first, his skin was rotting and degrading, reduced to wrinkled, dark skin with the faint smell of ash. He could only think empty thoughts, trudging forward with but a blurred purpose. What it was, he could not recall then, nor now. However, when a cold, yet beautiful light was left to be held in his hands, he felt something relight inside of him. His purpose was somewhat clear now, but it was still so muddled, as if left murky by the dark waters of his addled mind. He sought an end to this curse that plagued him and countless others before him, this terrible curse known as the Undead. He knew not of his origins, only that he was among it's victims... and that he would hold no time left, if he continued to remain idle.

 _...beyond the reach of dark..._

He remembers his arrival at that small, wrecked village with the woman garbed in the emerald robe. He remembered her words to seek the throne, to yearn for the king who could provide him with answers. He remembered how he journeyed across the lands, seeking out souls... yes, he remembers it well. The pains and deep writhing agony, the joyous wondrous enlightenment, the scathing blistering rage, the cold unforgiving wrath, and the sorrowful wilting despair, a variety of feelings that would be passed into him, with each soul he took. Even now, he remembers them. He cannot forget them, nor their faces. He also remembered the various people he encountered, all of them so unique and different, and so widely strange and bizarre that he was left befuddled... yet he remained precarious and curious, yet also distant. Though they viewed him with difference, he viewed them with subtle suspicion. Eventually, after learning more of them, of their pasts and motivation, he saw them as comrades in arms, and friends. He lost a great many of them in the past.

 _...what could possibly await us..._

Out of all of his adventures to find Venderick and this damnable throne he once sat upon, he recalled that damned witch, Nashandra. Even when they met, even though she showed him generosity and kindness with a calm benevolence, he saw her for what she was. Cold, uncaring, despairingly vain, so wretched and vile, and so wreathed heavily in putrid maggots. He could not stand to look at her, and met with her only that one time. Since then, he dared not so much as place a foot in that castle, and continued his search. It was through these journeys that, eventually, he had learned the full story, and the journey that had eluded him so after bringing an end to what remained of a once great king, taunted and misguided by his beloved queen, and finding a heart of ash. Shards of darkness roamed this wretched earth, but he still remained steadfast, one foot before the other, seeking only a way to bring to an end this horrible curse that marred his flesh, a blackened damnable circle etched into his rib. The king saw something in him, however. A light unknown, flickering with an unbridled awe. He told him to gather the crowns, for he could perhaps do what he could not.

 _...and yet..._

He fought those who bore these crowns. He fought what remained of a king that ruled over a city of molten iron, becoming only a giant, wretched beast that lurked in flames. The Scholar of the First Sin, Aldia, spoke of how he had succumbed to flame. He tangled with a horrible beast, nothing but flesh and flesh melted and amalgamated together, a heaping pound of disgusting flesh that smelled of rot and decay. The Scholar knew him only as the one who drowned in poison. He delved into a kingdom trapped in time, wreathed in the everlasting ice, hiding away a chaotic flame that a great and powerful king sought to subdue and chain down. The Scholar called him a monarch who slept in the realm of ice. He had brought forth the crowns, and Venderick had shown him a terrifying truth, one that sat in his satchel, unstained and unmarred by anything of impurity. Even now, he felt... pure, for whatever it was worth of one stained in sin.

 _...we seek it..._

All Undead will Hollow. They will lose the will to live, to find a purpose, and become only a mindless, wandering, decaying corpse. That would become his fate, left to wander eternally. This fate would become all the Undead that wandered this world. He recalled hearing it so many times before. That one day fire will fade, and only dark will remain. Men will be left to wander eternally, and become a curse. The Scholar of the First Sin spoke of this as well, how it was to be the order of the world: for fire to rule and present the joys of life, and then fade away to reveal only a despairing existence. The Relit the Flame, or to let it fade, and therefore become a Lord of Dark. These were the only choices one had, the only paths they could take... yet only a true monarch could make the decision to kindle the flame, or allow it to be reduced to fading sparks.

 _...insatiably...  
_

Nashandra stood against him, presented in her truest, vile form. She commanded the darkness with such terrifying ease that he had been left a near shrivelling corpse. His life had been cut down once, and by all rights, he should have hollowed... yet the crown he carried refused this. Yes, the queen showed nothing but shock when he stood back to his feet, skin unblemished, and will undeterred nor faded. Venderick had told him as much, that so long as the crown chose him, he would be the one true monarch, one who would lead all others. He was told to seek strength, and others would follow behind him. Indeed, he sought strength, and the power he gained allowed him to fell the damnable witch who dared to stand in his way. He stood before the throne... yet he could only ponder if this was his only choice.

 _...such is our fate..._

Aldia, the Scholar of the First Sin, stood before him. He told him that many monarchs had come and gone. The king who drowned in poison, the king who succumbed to flame, and the king who yet slumbers in the realm of ice. And yet, not one of them stood here, so close to the throne, as he did. He called him a conqueror of adversities, and demanded to learn his answer. And the Scholar of the First Sin stood against him as well, wreathed in the abhorring flames that would reduce him to mere ash. He stood his ground, blade in hand as he continued to cut him down. As the scholar fell to the earth, leaving behind only embers in his wake, he spoke that, despite losing everything, he remained in this world forevermore, and told him that, as a true monarch, the throne would accept him... but what did he desire, truly?

In the end, he turned on his heel, and walked down the path which led to the throne previously, the flames lit around him, as if lighting his path. Aldia spoke to him once again, as if saying that this choice was one that suited him... and it did. It was a farce, all of it. This cycle was nothing more but a sham. The age of man? The age of dark? Mere drivel, no more and no less. He'd have sooner allowed Nashandra to usher the age of dark than sit upon that throne... and strangely, the Emerald Herald still awaited him, face benevolent, showing only the same gaze she bore since the day he arrived before her. Slowly, he walked past her, and to the door where he entered. She trailed behind him in silence. His fingers, encased in leather, slowly reached for the helmet that sat on his head, and carefully pulled it off of him, allowing his ebony hair to fall. Before, it was so short... now, however, it reached pasted his shoulders, left tangled and messy. His violet eyes stared out into the darkness, seeing only the fading embers.

Yes... to seek a path unseen was indeed his fate... and he would gladly accept it, rather than accept being a mere pawn of fate. He would find a way... no matter what it took. The throne could be left to gather dust for all he cared for. It was nothing but a relic of the past now. Neither fire nor dark would provide peace... only a mere reprieve. Venderick and Aldia were right all along.

Now, it was only a matter of finding the path that they had not found. Perhaps, in truth... only a monarch could find it.

And perhaps... that monarch was him.

Perhaps that monarch was what little was left of the human that was once known as Lelouch vi Britannia.


	2. Tales at Sea

_It was a dream... a dream of the person he used to be._

 _He looked to be so much younger than before, trudging along a path lined with corpses, some untouched and left motionless by the side of the road, while others smelt burned and charred, as if having been burned alive. His body was small and frail, carrying the blind girl on his back while the soft green-eyed boy followed from behind, face wrought with sorrow, as if having committed a grievous sin._

 _"...big brother?" the girl called out weakly, her face nudged atop his shoulder. "Where are we? It smells..."_

 _The response should have been blunt and straight to the point. He should have told her that they were surrounded by the dead. Corpses were all around them. And yet, strangely so, he answered, "We're passing by a junkyard." he said, a false smile on his face as he looked back at her. "Your probably just smelling the trash."_

 _"Oh... I see." the girl nodded, a gentle smile coming across her face. He couldn't understand how she could be so happy, nor take his words for granted. It was when he saw her gentle, kind, honest smile that he realized why he had lied. She was so pure, angelic almost, like a guiding light to him. Such people like her were far and few in Drangleic, in fact he could not recall the last time he met someone with such gentleness. The only person he could recall, searching in the back of his mind, was the Emerald Herald, though her kindness and gentleness left some in distaste, perhaps because of her unique nature._

 _He stopped for a brief moment when he realized that the boy behind them had stopped. His small arms were shaking, head lowered. His eyes were watery, on the verge of tears no doubt. "...are you alright?" he asked, though strangely, his name alluded him. He knew this boy with the utmost certainty, yet his name, so close on the tip of his tongue, eluded him like a pesky, annoying fly. The child nodded somberly, wet streams flowing down his face, cutting through the patches of soot that caked his face. He walked over to him, the girl seemingly comforting him as she placed a hand on his cheek._

 _"It'll be okay..." she said, smiling still. The boy's eyes widened, looking at her in shock. He was left like this for a while before he gently placed his own small hands over hers, sobbing. He looked at the sight with apathy, unable to understand why this was happening between the two. He looked down at his hands, seeing only the flowing blood. The smell had changed. He no longer smelled burning flesh... only rotting._

 _He looked to his side, seeing corpses rising from their places, stumbling toward them, hands outstretched. He recognized some of them as the Hollows he had killed before. He no longer felt the child's weight on his back, and no longer heard the boy's sobbing. Wordless, he reached behind his back, taking the hilt of his blade into his hand. Even though the corpses reached out for him, as if begging for help, he regarded them with nothing but silence._

 _He pulled the blade from it's sheath, and slowly stalked forward, sword in hand. He began to pick up speed, his other hand clasping around the hilt. He was running now._

 _"...demon..." the corpses whispered and chanted, eyeless sockets glaring out at him. They were nothing but blackened holes, maggots falling from their skin. "...monster... betrayer...demon...heretic...!"_

 _The chanting grew louder. He knew not of what they spoke of, and honestly speaking... he did not care for them._

 _"...die..." the corpses howled. "...die...die...die...die...!"_

 _Die, indeed... how many times has he died in pursuit of that damned throne?_

 _"...demon... a demon...!"_

 _He leaped into the air, pulling his blade back behind him. The corpse at the very front screamed at him._

 _It was the girl he carried on his back._

 _"...you shouldn't exist...!"  
_

 _The blade cut into her skull._

* * *

A sudden shift below him caused Lelouch to groan, shaking his form subtly. Slowly, his eyes blinked open, his sight blurry like murky water. His limbs were stiff, the rest of him aching angrily as he moved his arm to rub the drowsiness out from his orbs. Soon, the murk subsided, and was greeted with rays of harsh sunlight stabbing into his eyes. He gritted his teeth slightly, pulling himself up. His hair fell slightly across his face, flapping comically as he rose up. His hand touched his face, grasping it as he felt sweat pour down his face.

A dream... that was all it was, a mere dream... yet he could not deny the remnant of pain that ached in his heart, or what was left of it. Beside him, the Emerald Herald stirred as well, shifting ever so slightly. From outside the small little cot they were in, he could hear the cries of seagulls. He pinched his nose when an unfamiliar stink fled into his nostrils. "...smells like shit," Lelouch remarked crudely before he stood up on his legs. He had stripped himself of his armor when they had departed, now dressed in only a loose cotton shirt and slacks, a pair of mud-stained boots on his feet, and a ratty cloak covering his body. It would not do well for him to receive such strange stares.

He stepped out, leaving the Herald to herself, though he was forced to bring up his arm, his eyes still trying to register the harsh sunlight around him. The sky above was a cold, yet cerulean blue, a shade he thought he had seen before, despite the skies of Drangleic being nothing but cloudy, rotting gray. He wrinkled his nose in disgust when the smell continued to invade him. The waters here smelled so foul, but it was a far cry from the horrid stench he had come to begrudgingly get used to in his travels.

The boat was old and wrecked, yet strangely the man in charge of it thought it was still in perfect shape. He failed to see how, but did not question it. So long as it got him away from this hell hole as far as possible, he was content. And speaking of the captain, the man in question was lounging about at the head of the boat. He was dressed oddly, though his preference was not to be desired. A simple leather jacket, stained and dingy shirt, and worn out slacks. A dingy cap sat atop his head. When the fisherman noticed his presence, he chuckled a bit, waving at him. "Top of the mornin' to ya, laddie." he greeted, his accent thick and unfamiliar. "Sleep well 'nough?"

He gave a rough nod. He didn't like to talk more than he had to, especially since his throat hurt like hell right now. It was sore and scratchy, probably a result of sleeping in a damned haystack.

"Don't talk much, do ya?" the fisherman asked, chuckling. "Anyway, helluva time to be travelin', 'specially from dat hellhole... Dragon-whatsits?"

He gave the man a wry smirk beneath the cloth, walking over to join him. The pungent smile was going to take some getting used to, but the gentle breeze was refreshing. It reminded him of that small little town that acted as something of a home to him.

"So, where'd ya headin'?" he asked curiously. "Not da bes' time ta be movin'."

He figured as much. "...where are we heading?"

"Port town up north, nice place durin' da season!" the fisherman grinned, revealing yellow teeth, and a missing molar. Man must've been a warrior to lose a tooth. Hell knows how many he ended up losing, and yet they grow back just the same. A perk to being undead, he assumed. "'Course, there's dis big city Northeast, really famous for healin'! Don't put stock in all of 'is talk, but word is, it can heal anyone, just from a transfusion!"

Healing... when he heard the word, he grew curious. While he seemed to vaguely recall the meaning of 'transfusion,' whatever the hell it meant, it was obvious that it was important, and apparently something quite popular. Perhaps there was a chance to rid himself of this curse? Even if he could no longer Hollow, he could not rely on the Crown forever, and he needed to find someway to rid the Darksign of others who suffered the same fate as he did... from the fate the Emerald Herald held.

"...what is the name of this town?" he asked.

The fisherman chuckled. "'ey call it Yharnam, City of Blood Healing."


	3. An old man's tale

It was so much different than Drangleic. In a realm that succumbed to death, decay, and despair, the only inhabitants found there were monsters, Undead who had long since Hollowed, left to wander eternally, and whatever left that were sane were struggling to keep their sanity. He recalled very few who Hollowed, yet somehow managed to retain their wits about them. Majulah was really the closest he could call to home and with so many people that bustled.

In this small place, closely packed enough that it actually made him nervous, he saw nothing but people, none marked by the brand. It shocked him at first, but then thought that, perhaps, the Darksign had yet to reach some places. If that was the case, then he hoped this peace would last for as long as possible. It'd be foolish to think it would not touch their flesh here in these strange lands. Hope was an ideal for fools, naive ones, and hopeful ones. He knew that there was, in no way, for someone to be able to resist the brand the moment it was seared into their flesh. From that moment on, they were a cursed existence.

"...amazing," the Emerald Herald breathed, eyes left wide open in sheer amazement. She ran forward ahead of him, only stopping when the streets became wider for them to travel through. She looked around, finding nothing but the ever moving crowds. "So many people here... and none are marked." Lelouch was confused at first, but then realized something. This had been her first time outside of Drangleic, and he was no exception. Though his memories, no matter how muddled and distorted they were, had information of things he knew were odd and uncommon in this world, yet still he gleamed from them, to learn more about his own forgotten past. For the majority of his life without memories, having awoken in Drangleic in the first place with no memory as to how he arrived there, he knew only the life of an undead. There was no simple pleasantries, no easy paths, no easygoings.

And yet, here, in this port town, so far away from a land cursed and tainted by death, he found so much of it. The town was vibrant, colorful, very much unlike Majulah. Sure, they were many a colorful person there, but it was hardly cheery. Everyone wore a smile or two, passing all around them without a care in the world, as if they did not fear the curse of the Undead. It was a foolish thing, however, to not think you were safe from it. Experience had taught him better than to hope. He needed the drive to search for it, even with uncertainty. That was why he left Drangleic with the Herald in the first place, to find a way to end this damnable curse.

To the Herald, however... this was a beautiful place. All she had wanted was an end to the curse of the Undead, a way to rid the world of the Darksign. That was why she followed him, because she believed, like the witch Nashandra, and King Venderick, that he would be the monarch to stand above them all. She had not made any signs of displeasure, of anger and hatred, of dislike and distaste for him when she had watched him walk away from the Throne of Want. It had seemed as if she had fully expected of him to deny it. She thought of him as a lord, one who sought true peace... but, in a way, he was a lord without a throne. In all honesty, he disliked the title. There was nothing lordly about him. And yet, still, she followed him for whatever purpose. Perhaps, she, like him, believed there was another way to end the curse. For her to stand in a place that was untouched by the curse of the undead was so surreal, one would think it a dream.

A paradise, in a sense... but how long would it last?

"Well, good luck to ya, laddie." the fisherman said to him from behind. He looked over his shoulder to see the man smiling his toothy grin, waving at him. "Hope ya find what yer lookin' for!"

He hoped for that as well. He nodded back, and joined the Emerald in the streets. Besides the people of the town, he found that the architecture was more well-structured than what he found in Drangleic. Wood and stone left houses and buildings to stand with windows marred with glass barriers, a curious thing that they lacked unless it were a castle. Wooden stalls with men and women behind them called out with cheers and bellows, a wide variety of foods, vegetables, and meats gathered in a single place. He pinched his nose slightly when he smelled something rather foul. Again, it was not as bad as what he smelled back at Drangleic, but it was still rather foul and displeasing. Even the Herald was snapped away from her amusement, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. The smell was drifting to the stalls with the bodies of fish.

"...they sell fish here?" she asked, blinking. "I am aware that Drangleic, back when it prospered, was no stranger of selling fish, but... this is a first for me."

He gave no response. He didn't think it was odd at all. Although, he wondered why the meats were not refrigerated, or at the very least, kept in someplace cold. Did they want the meat to go spoiled? "...let's look around." he said to her. "We need to find a way to reach Yharnam, if what that fisherman said was true."

The Herald tilted her head at him, her bangs shifting slightly to reveal her odd-colored eye. "Do you believe that this 'blood healing' that he spoke of might hold a clue to the curse?"

"...perhaps. It's foolish, either way, not to try and understand how it works."

She said nothing more, and nodded. They began looking around the port town, seeking someone who knew how to reach the city. Sadly, when they had asked around, all they received was information they already knew, or at least about the city itself, and not the way there. Yharnam was originally a normal city like any other on this foreign continent, however it had not truly prospered until scholars from the Byrgenworth Institution had discovered something called the Old Blood, whatever the unholy hell that was. Ever since, the Healing Church had come to pass, and within the span of ten years, Yharnam became a bustling city, soon expanding its borders. The city of blood healing, they called it, for the blood they found could cure any disease. If such were the case, then perhaps this blood could remove even the Darksign? ...no, that was wishful thinking. Though he sincerely doubted it's abilities, perhaps it might be a key to discovering how to remove the brand of the Undead from this world.

After all, for blood like this to exist, it could not have been made by the hands of humans.

"Eh?" a male citizen frowned heavily as he turned to the two, having addressed him. He was quite old, skin wrinkled with a thinning head of hair. Hardly any of it was left, and whatever remained as old and gray. It was little more than shrivelled strands. His back was hunched over, a wooden cane in hand to keep him balance. "You want to go to Yharnam? Whatever for?" he asked, giving them a scrutinizing gaze. "You two don't look sick."

"...idle curiosity." he replied back. "Nothing more."

The old man raised an eyebrow, wandering what he wanted, but shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I hate to tell you this, but getting to Yharnam isn't gonna be easy." he told them. "The road's littered with monsters these days. Any travelling caravan will hire some mercenaries, but lately, with those damned beasts running around, well..."

The Emerald Herald tilted her head. "...beasts?"

He nodded. "Aye, and ferocious ones at that. If you're serious, then you'd best be careful."

Lelouch nodded, thanking the man before he left with the Herald. The old man watched the two go, eyes knitted in confusion and suspicion, his old eyes gazing into the black-haired man's back. Once he vanished into the crowd, the old man turned around, taking his leave. Unbeknownst to many who passed by him, however, the man's eyes were glazed over, and his olden mouth was set into a mumbling manner.

"Yes..." he murmured, as if left in a trance. "As they say on pilgrimage..."

The black-haired traveller looked up, staring at the blue sky as a hawk dashed by, wings outstretched as it to relish the feeling of rushing wind flowing through it's wings and feathers.

"The fire fades..."

For a moment, his eyes closed and opened in a quick manner. And there, for only a brief second, his violet eyes, so rich like gems, becoming englossed with a smoldering, flickering orange.

"And the lords..." the old man murmured, his shrivelled hands losing the cane. Slowly, but surely, his back straightened out. "...have no thrones."

And then, the man was gone, with only his cane left behind in the road.


	4. Dreaming of an old Lie

The wagon was slow as the pair of horse's pulled its weight, the cloth enshrouding the wooden carriage blocking out most of the sunlight while leaving only an open view of what stood before them, and what laid out behind them. A young man directed the horses, sitting at the top with hands at the reigns. He looked to be at the end of his adolescence, a cotton shirt with a leather vest, a wide-brimmed hat, black pants, and boots. His face was well-shaved with faint signs of stubble, a critical gaze scanning the horizon for threats. Lelouch and the Herald sat inside the wagon, the former leaning against where the driver sat. At his side was a giant blade, draped in a sheath, whereas the Herald sat by a young woman with blonde hair, wearing only a frilly white dress, and a hat of some sort resting on her head. She held a gentle smile and kind eyes, and her hands rested on her lap.

"We truly thank you both for coming with us," the wife of the driver said in gratitude. "We don't have much to offer you as payment, I'm afraid."

The Emerald Herald shook her head, keeping her ever benevolent face straight, though he could easily tell she was at ease here, if traces of a small smile were any indication. "We will not require payment," she told the woman in earnest. "However, I must ask... This city of blood miracles, Yharnam... is it indeed a place of healing?"

"Oh, yes, very much so." the woman nodded extravagantly in the utmost fervor. "A long time ago, back when I was still on a mother of one child, my husband came down with a terrible disease. The doctors couldn't find anything wrong, but every day, he kept getting worse and worse. It got so bad that he even began coughing up blood. I was terrified out of my wits before a travelling priest came by our town. Do you know what he came for? To spread the word of Yharnam, a city that could heal any disease, with only so much as a drop of their mystical blood. He said he could cure my husband's disease, and there was no price for it at all. I didn't want to believe it, in fact I couldn't. How could blood help my husband?" A sardonic expression crossed her face. "But, I was desperate, and accepted. A day later, I find my husband walking about in our house, looking as healthy as a horse!"

The Herald's eyes widened in amazement while he remained skeptical. Healing without a price? Bah, that was a sham, no more and no less. Still, though... to heal a man so quickly, this blood of theirs must hold some sort of property of some kind to be able to heal her husband. He looked over his shoulder, peering over the man's shoulder, and saw only green pastures and the strip of gravel that lead forward into the mountains. He thumbed the hilt of his sword, slightly anxious as if he hoped he'd see these beasts first hand. He'd come across many a strange creature in Drangleic, some of which were better left unsaid... what kind of beast will he meet here in a world outside?

"...you don't look like a warrior," the driver said, his voice gruff and low-pitched. "You sure your up for facing these things?"

Lelouch gave him a sideways glance, and did not answer him. The man saw his silence as his answer, and returned to looking back at the road that stretched out behind them. He closed his eyes, leaning back in his place as he awaited for his time to arrive, as well as the time pull out his blade. In the meantime... he would rest.

* * *

 _"...all of my life, I've lived a lie; the lie of living."_

 _He stood admist a ring of corpses. He looked to be older now, dressed in black with golden trims. His hair was short, left cut neatly at the chin. Blood was splattered across his face, which was left in a stupefied expression._

 _"My name, too, was a lie."_

 _The world around him was cold, metal, and gray, left to rotting with death left within. Part of him felt slightly horrified by what he saw, what he had done. Another part of him felt that it was what they deserved for what they did. A bit beyond their bodies were more corpses, only these were dressed in tatters or casual. The rest of him... just couldn't care. He could not.  
_

 _"My personal history, a lie. Nothing but lies."_

 _Gingerly, his hand moved up to his face. He could have sworn he smelled burning flesh, the faintest forms of flames dancing around him. His hand began to crawl up his face, covering it in it's entirety.  
_

 _"_ _I was sick to death of a world that couldn't be changed. But even in my lies, I refused to give up in despair."_

 _The flames grew, devouring the world around him bit by bit. Behind him was his shadow, reflecting his present self. Though it showed no distinct figure, it revealed the outline: a figure encased in armor, a pair of blades in hand. One was twin edges, curled around it each other like vines, and the other stretched out, almost like a broadsword._

 _"_ _But now..this incredible power... It's mine."_

 _His hand fell from his face, falling to his sides. His hair fluttered as the inferno surrounded him, his hair fluttering about. His eyes burned a glowering orange, but in his left eye, the iris was overcome with a glittering red. A bird had appeared, wings curled around the black dot in the center. He felt it... a strange power coursing within him. His eye burned in irritation, like an annoying itch... but it felt so wonderful. Internally, he felt elated and ecstatic. Perhaps he had indeed lived a lie, but he would sooner allow himself to wallow in despair than to give up existing. All he wanted now... was an end. An end to it all. An end to this damned charade. The world was stagnant, but now he held the power. The power to change the world. He could do it... he could change this pitiful existence._

 _He could defy fate itself._

 _By that one thought alone... he smirked._

 ** _"Well, then..."_**

* * *

"What in the bloody hell is that?!"

Lelouch stirred from his sleep, eyes snapping open. From outside, he could hear a startled cry and fiendish growls and snarls. The wife's face was etched in panic, the driver slowly reclining into the caravan. He gave the Emerald Herald a quick glance. She nodded to him, as if meaning to ensure their safety. He smirked beneath the face mask, and stood up, taking the strap that held the sheath into his hands, and hopped out of the caravan.

He finally got a look at the beasts that haunted these lands. He couldn't help but blink. Once, twice, three times. "...well," he finally spoke in surprise. "That's new."


	5. Beast without a Soul

It was a wolf.

No, calling it that would be the same as calling it a lost dog.

The beast stood on all fours, body coated in mangy, darkened black fur with shimmering cold, glazing white eyes. It's body resembled that of a canine, but no dog stood on all fours in such a manner like that. It was almost like a human imitating a dog to the best of their feeble abilities. It's claws were curled and sharp, almost like talons, and hot drool fell from between its jaws, as if salivating it's meal.

He had to admit, this was a first. He remembers coming across demented hell hounds, but this was new. He did feel a little disappointed, however. Perhaps the warrior that had been raised within him in Dragleic was hoping for more of a challenge. He took his hand around the hilt, and pulled the blade out. It wasn't as grand as it's namesake, but the power it held was certainly a thing to behold indeed. He recalled how that dangy old crow was practically bouncing up and down when he presented the soul to him needed to forge it. Suffice to say, it was a great masterpiece indeed. He could only scarcely imagine how powerful the blade would have been, if held in the hands of Venderick once more, only on his sane, pure self and not a shriveled corpse.

When the beast saw him drawing his blade, it growled and began to circle to the left. He followed suit, moving to the right, eyes trained on it. Only silence became the orchestrator for them, as while the beast growled in animosity, he remained silent and steadfast. He looked at it's body, looking for any weakpoint present. Being all fours made it easy to exploit, but he was no expert in this sort of monster. That being said, however, he would take this chance to gather experience for this manner of monster. When travelling a half-circle, the beast finally reacted, and howled as it charged forward, it's maw opening to reveal a row of sharpened teeth.

"...hmph."

He side-stepped, avoiding it with ease. The beast missed it's mark, but it was quick to whirl around, whipping it's head to face him before charging again, this time launching with it's arms raised, perhaps intending to grab and claw him. He swiftly ducked underneath the strike, and this time, he did not deny a strike. As he felt the rushing wind from beneath the beast's arm, he held the blade in both hands, and with a swift swing of his arms, allowed the sword to cut a wound in it's side. The flesh tore easily, leaving behind a splatter of blood, splashing against his cloak and the blades of grass being trampled upon beneath them. The wolf-like monstrosity howled in pain as it tumbled to the ground, a result of the wound inducing serious pain. It soon shrugged it off, however, glowering with fury as it stood again on it's stretched out limbs, eyes livid with anger at it's prey. Lelouch regarded it no more than he would with a simple annoyance like any other monster he fought in Dragleic, and merely waited for another charge.

Again, it rushed at him, this time apparent that it wanted to snap off his limbs with it's jaws and feast upon his flesh afterwards. As it charged, he lowered his legs until he was crouching, hand against the ground, and blade held firmly at his side. He kept his eyes focused, waiting for the opportune moment. From the caravan, the married couple watched in absolute awe at him. Many a mercenary had come forward, showing off their talents and skills, but they held one obvious advantage: numbers. They were not in ones or twos, they came in fives and sixes, armed with shields, axes, spears, bows, guns, swords, anything that could kill a beast with ease. They had never seen one so bold, so brazen as to fight with no armor, and with only a single blade without a shield, much less a gun. The Herald, however, regarded the sight with idle curiosity. Normally, whenever he had brought out his blade, the battle would be over in mere moments. Then again, however, this was a new breed of beast they had not seen before in Drangleic. He most likely wished to know how it fought, how it lived and died... how it would reach him.

Finally, the beast reached him. It failed to realize, however, that this action would prove to be it's undoing. With a single, sharp swing, so swift and fast that it revealed itself only as a flash, the beast kept running past it's prey, coming slowly to a halt, it's jaws slightly ajar, drool still flowing. He stood behind him, back facing it as he flicked his sword, the blood that had marred it's silvery beauty flung to the grass. A second had passed, and with it came a gentle breeze. Another second passed, and this time, blood dripped down to the earth. Finally came the third second, and the beast fell to the ground. Across it's lower body, reaching all the way to it's neck, was a singular cut, deep reaching into it's intestines, and it's beating heart, cut in half. Blood flowed freely from the open wound, out into the grass where the soil beneath it began to drink it ever so slowly. He slid the sword into it's sheath, dusting off his cloak, and returning to the caravan, completely ignoring the shocked and bewildered looks of the married couple. The Emerald Herald smiled somewhat at him, and he in turn, nodding to her.

"...I-I can scarcely believe me eyes..." the husband breathed in slight discourse. "H-how did you kill it so quickly? Even the mercenaries had trouble killing such a beast!"

He merely shrugged his shoulders, uncaring. The fight was relatively simple enough, in contrast to the brutal fights he immersed in previously in that god-forsaken land. He did notice, however, that the beast held no soul at all. When a Hollow died, or any creature back in Drangleic for that matter, their soul would flow into him, and with it came memories and thoughts and feelings, up to the point where they became intertwined with despair and wrought with hell. He felt any emotions, some of which had damned near almost broken him, the only thing holding him together was what little humanity he truly ever had, and the Emerald Herald, who stood at his side through out this entire bloody journey. And, yet... this beast, this wolf, it held no soul. If it did, it was long gone, perhaps devoid of thoughts and feelings.

Strangely, however, as he slid back into the caravan, ignoring the erratic and joyous chatterings of the wife, he could have sworn he heard an echoing tone in the air, so quiet and vile, creeping with dread.

 _"...curse the fiends, their children too..."_

 _"...and their children, forever true..."_


	6. Into a Bloodstained World

The caravan had reached the end of it's journey when they reached the main road. The couple was more than gracious enough to give them directions, which were relatively simple, though they had also bade them warnings of more of those wolfen-like creatures lurking about, as the area was coated in lush woodland before it would enter an empty pasture, such as the road before. Even from where they were, positioned above a cliff, he could see it.

The Emerald Herald gazed at it with nothing short but amazement, and astonishment. Her hands clasped together. "...how beautiful."

Yharnam, from above, was a marvelous creation. It was so different in comparison to Drangleic's structures, so much more stylized and, apparently, modernized. The sun was high in the blue sky, though he doubted that it would not be long before the sun would fall into the horizon, and the sky left to pale into an orange backdrop. The city was large, marvelous, and grand... yet somehow, he knew, that every grand structure holds a deep darkness, an unbidden secret better left untouched. Nonetheless, they continued their journey inwards.

Occasionally, Lelouch would encounter the wolf-like beasts again and again, but they were but mere child's play, dead in but mere moments. He was still left confused about why they did not hold a soul, and was still left on edge, hearing the echoing voices in the air. The Emerald Herald gave no indication she heard their voices, but he knew that she must have also heard them. They always echoed the same damned thing, ramblings about cursing fiends and their children, whatever that meant. Either way, the constant and incessant chattering was annoying the hell out of him, enough to the point where his teeth would gnash together out of annoyance and irritation. He kept it to himself through sheer will, but that did not mean he was not annoyed.

It was a strange thing, however. Why would blood be whispering such nonsense? Moreover, what did any of this have to do with fiends and children? The more he thought about it, the more he thought about Yharnam, and it's supposed miraculous healing blood. Blood that healed all manner if ailments, be it physical and mental, and able to rid disease from the body, regardless of nature... and now, beast blood that spoke. It was hard not to believe that there must have been some sort of connection, or some manner of link between the two. Either way, he would have his answers in Yharnam.

When they arrived at the front gate, having traversed the pastures with ease and dealing with any unsightly manner of creature that came their way, he couldn't help but wrinkle his nose as a result of a repugnant smell flooding inside his nostrils. It came with great intensity, forcing him to pinch his nose out of sheer disgust. For her part, the Herald did not show any emotion, but her narrowing eyes revealed only anxiety and distrust. The gate was solid steel, and it would be impossible to cut down, much less melt down with the use of pyromancy. He examined it for a while, slightly familiar of it's make. "...the hinges look solid," he muttered to himself, stepping back a bit. "But it's rusted all to hell. We could probably force it open, seeing as how their's now operation mechanism anywhere nearby."

The Herald gazed into the city beyond the gates. "...above, I had thought it to be beautiful," she said with sadness. "From here on the ground... It's rather dreary." He agreed with that. From that cliff, Yharnam, when bathed in beautiful sunlight, looked like a city of gold... now, it only provided a sense of dread and despair. Whatever laid inside, he was sure that it would be anything but a prosperous city of supposed and miraculous blood healing. He placed his hand against the hinges, seeing the carboned bits of red on the metal. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and imagined it inside his head: the overwhelming flames that burned within a cauldron, exploding with such intensity and fervor that the cauldron cracked, bits of flame escaping from within before it finally shattered. At that moment, he opened his eyes, revealing burning, orange irises.

In the next second, flames consumed the hinges of the gate. Within moments, droplets of yellow and red and orange fell to the ground, hissing as the ground beneath became burnt and charred from their heated bodies. Shortly, the gate moaned in discomfort, and leaned forward, crashing to the ground with a thud. The two looked ahead, seeing only an empty and desolate road that led inside the city. From here, he could make out dancing swirls of smoke, faint embers of flames, and the familiar smell of burning flesh. He pulled up his face mask, and unsheathed the Ruler's Sword, turning to the Emerald Herald. "...stay close to me." he told her, a hint of worry and protectiveness evident in his tone. The woman nodded solemnly, and hung close to him.

Finally, they set forward. As they did, somewhere inside this city, a stranger stirred. A groan escaped them, male in tone, and a frame so slim yet muscled, if only faintly and slightly. He adorned pinstripe slacks, complete with leather shoes at the feet, and belt straps that hung loosely on either side. At the top, he wore a dress shirt, so well-kept in place with it's noble cuffs and overturned collar, alongside it's red vest. His head was covered by a black hood, which connected to the small cape that hung around his shoulders, only stopping when reaching his biceps. From beneath the hood was pale blonde hair with the faintest traces of brown found with his bangs. They were swept to the left, as if in reverse to the Emerald Herald's own brunette mane. Like her, he possessed two eyes: one deep red, the color of blood, which rest rested in his right orb, while beneath the bangs, his left carried a deep blue, creating a stark contrast, as well as an expanded pupil, so odd and strange for one such as he.

Slowly, he became adjusted to the darkness around him, blinking rapidly before he moved off of the table beneath him, struggling to keep his balance. His head throbbed and ached with pain, causing him to carress his forehead, fingers interlocked with his hair. "...seek..." he muttered, as if left in trance with confusion evident. "...the paleblood..." He clenched his teeth, feeling the pain continue to pound away at the insides of his skull. "...and transcend..."

And yet, again, elsewhere, in a realm nigh untouched by the realms of mortal men, an old man smiled thinly as he looked up at the pale moon above his humble, quiet, and peaceful abode.

 _"...the hunt..."_


	7. A dreadful Flame

The city, from within it's threshold, had lost it's dreariness. Now, it only looked the part of a desolate graveyard, smoke and ash philandering about in the air, the smell of burning flesh dancing alongside the remnants of life, and the large towering buildings that stood all around them played the part of giant tombstones. If this had been a majestic city at some point in time, it no longer held this luster, for now it had become something of a mere distant memory. He walked about it's streets, blade out, while the Herald stood quietly at his side. He looked around, looking for any possible threat that may unveil itself from the shadows. He could feel the warrior that had been raised in Drangleic inside of him begin to grow restless, as well as anxious. Half an hour had passed since they first entered, and not a single soul was to be seen. The situation was so oddly familiar, that he couldn't help but feel restless. Why was it so empty? Could have something to do with those damned beasts?

"...the air reeks of blood and death." the Herald spoke up, her tone somber and quiet, eyes looking into the distance as if reliving an old memory. He turned slightly to her, violet eyes lowering in confusion. "It reminds me of Drangleic... back when all of it first began." Ah... so that was what she had meant. He could scarcely recall it, to be honest. All of his life, or rather, this life without memories, he had known nothing but battle. To cut down and rob anything alive of it's soul. The crestfallen warrior at Majulah had warned him not to be so wild and erratic, that he must be cautious. He barely heeded such warnings, and slowly, he began to understood. This was how most Hollows had become, wandering without a sense of purpose except to reclaim some semblance of humanity, something to make them feel... human, again. The Darksign had cursed them and damned them to an eternal hell.

Lelouch recalled Venderick's words to him when he saw him back before he had been reduced to a Hollow, left sane with his wits about him, left to dream a dreamless dream inside a mere memory of ash.

* * *

 _"One day, fire will fade," the old king told the man standing beside him. He recognized the armor well, the silver gleaming helmet with the single visor slit, the white matted fur upon his shoulders, and the iron plates that adorned his body. It suited him well, as had the blade he held in his hand. "And Dark will become a curse. Men will be free from death, left to wander eternally."_

 _He stared up at the ceiling, a somber and despairing look about on his old, worn and grey face. "Dark will once again be ours... and in our true shape, we can bury the false legends of yore."_

 _The boy seemed to understand this, though beneath the helmet, Venderick could see beautiful gems as eyes, left in confusion and distrust of such words. He couldn't help but smile wryly. Something about this undead... reminded him of himself, someone who was bound to the cycle of Light and Dark, someone who struggled against it's confines. His brother, Aldia, had once told him that peace grants men the illusion of life, however small and fleeting it was. Both ideals would not end the curse, only temporarily move it from them. It was as if the world had damned them... left with only two choices: ignite the flames of life, or allow it to fade and let the darkness of death consume all._

 _"And yet..." he continued, causing the undead to stare at him in wonder. "Is this... our only choice?"_

* * *

The old man was right. This couldn't have been their only choice. How could it? To light the fire once again, only to do so once more in the distant future? Was that going to be their fate? To endlessly be caught in the cycle, to allow it to play out again, just so souls could flourish anew and die in peace? It was a farce, all of it! Accepting the dark was no better than allowing a world of Social Darwinism: survival of the fittest. Those with strength would rule above all, with the supposed Dark Lord standing atop his throne of corpses, and the weak will be left to be trampled underfoot. That sort of world sickened him. There would be no way he would ever accept the Dark. Never! To hell with the Dark Lords and those who sought to reignite the Flame! He'd have sooner allow himself to Hollow than suffer such a fate! Venderick was right, there had to be another way.

And Aldia was inclined to believe this as well. He had even tried to stray from the cycle, to go above and beyond and seek a new path, but he too found himself lost in the throes of agony. His body had become warped and decayed, left to be no more than a mere misshapen lump, encroached by the flames. If there truly was no path, however... then he would make it. He was the only one who could.

He had the power to make that path a reality.

Soon, after traversing across a small bridge, they found themselves in what appeared to be the central accommodations. The city became more closer, enclosed, and the streets becoming more complexed. He could smell the scent of burning flesh growing closer now, the sky tainted orange with the sun slowly sinking down to the world below. From where they stood, more of Yharnam stood out to them, even down below, showing that they were located in the upper levels of the city. Lining the streets were coffins... all of them forged in black and gold tailored steel, tightly bound with thick chains. "...something isn't right," he muttered under his breath, something inside of him growing restless and confused. "Where is everyone?"

His question was answered with the sound of metal, a sharp blade, scraping against the cobblestone floor below them. He narrowed his eyes as a figure emerged from behind a carriage. It was masculine, standing easily a head taller than himself, dressed in tight pants and leather boots reaching up to his calves, a coat hanging off his thin form, a wide-brim hat atop his head, his hair shaggy and dirty as if it had not been washed in days. His mouth was left ajar slightly, revealing yellow molars and fangs, a thick carpet of fur hanging from his lower jaw. In one hand was a torch, and in the other, a bloodstained axe.

The Emerald Herald's eyes widened. "...what in the name of Gwynn?" she breathed. "This man... He is... He's not..."

Lelouch finished her sentence.. "...not human anymore."

The man held no presence, only madness and bloodlust, as if having fallen pray to his own inner urges, his carnal desire for death and destruction. His eyes revealed only the eyes of a predator. When he noticed them, his eyes flickered with fury and rage and disgust, his fanged mouth morphing into one of utter distaste and obvious wrath. He ran toward them, torch held up high, and his axe dragging behind him. When he was close enough, he brought up his axe.

"Die, you filthy beast-!"

His arm, which held the axe, became slack, falling to the ground. The man's eyes widened, fear and confusion rooting deep inside of him while he glared back, eyes smoldering with annoyance, and blade outstretched in his hand, his cloak fluttering about. "...your the beast," he told him. "Not me."

And with that, he swung his sword. It cut cleanly into the man-turned-beast easily, slicing through flesh, muscle, and bone as if it were all paper. Blood splattered across his body, leaving him with red stains across his cloak and on his face, a guiser of red fluid gushing out as the large man fell to the ground, flat on his back, his face left in his expression of total fear. He curled his mouth into disgust from the feeling of the blood touching his skin, utterly revolted by the slimy and bumpy texture to it.

He had noticed one thing, however. Like the werewolf he encountered, it held no soul... and again, the blood began to whisper.

 _"Curse the fiends, their children too... And their children, forever true..."_

He growled in frustration as he took a bit of his cloak, and wiped off the blood from his face. "...are you alright?" the Herald asked out of concern. He looked back, and nodded. He was simply irritated by the blood that apparently uttered incoherent whispers. It was strange... and it also provided some information for him. The lycanthrope and the man he had just killed were connected, meaning that Yharnam and the beasts he encountered were linked in some way. The blood healing must have been a factor in this. "Look," she gestured to the small building close by. It was placed in what looked to be a graveyard, barred by a gate. "There appears to be a clinic here. I recognize the design, if only slightly."

A place of healing, then. Perhaps he would find some answers, or at least, someone who was same. He pulled the gate open, which creaked loudly and moaned as a result, and stepped inside. He stopped only a second later, eyes widening in shock. The walls around the gate and the building itself obscured the entrance, thus leaving any trace of it ambiguous. However, when he saw it, he couldn't help but gape.

At the very steps of the clinic, an old, rusted blade was stuck into the ground, and surrounding it was a small, faint ember of flames that danced around the base. He recognized it immediately, and could not believe his eyes. It was simply impossible, as such sights could have only been found in either Lordran, as he was told by that mysterious old cat, and in Drangleic... and yet, there it was, plain as day.

In front of the steps to Iosefka's Clinic... was a bonfire.


	8. Ruler meets Hunter

Once his hand brushed against the handle, the ever-familiar sense of warmth and flowing sensation of elation spread across his body, and soon, began to flow into the handle itself. The embers expanded, and became a soaring flame that encompassed the entirety of it's being. Soon, the entire sword was surrounded by flames. "...how is this even possible?" he muttered, kneeling in front of the fire with complete confusion. "Why is a bonfire here?"

He turned to the Emerald Herald, as if hoping she would hold some explanation to this phenomenon. Sadly, however, she shook her head, as she, too, was left bewildered. The bonfires, in a sense, were all linked together, creating a pathway for those chosen by the Darksign, therefore Undead, could travel into, and arrive at. It was unknown how it worked, but some believed it was because of the First Flame, that which brought forth the Age of Fire that came about as a result of the Great Souls, which were held by Gwyn, the Lord of Sunlight, Nito the Gravelord, and the Witch of Izalith. The bonfires were all connected to the First Flame. In Lordran, they were all connected to the Kiln, where the flames resided within when they first began. In Drangleic, it had been the Throne of Want, which, according to legend, could allow whoever sat upon the throne to shape the world as they saw fit, able to rekindle the First Flame, or allow it to fade and become a Dark Lord.

However, Lelouch had chosen to deny the throne, in favor of a path without relying on such a temporary, one-sided measure. Regardless of choice, the Darksign would remain place. Therefore, it should stand to reason that the bonfires, without a Monarch, much less Firekeeper to attend to it, or to allow it to remain lit, should exist. And yet, one stood before them.

He sighed in aggravation, palming his face and shaking it, his hair swaying with him before he stood back up. This might have proved to be a blessing in disguise for him. With a bonfire, he could return here to rest, as the flames pried away unsavory characters, and return here when his life would come to an abrupt end, should he be killed. Crown or no, he was still an Undead, and therefore, would return to the bonfire. He could wonder how it as here later. In fact, this might also provide a clue to finding something about how the people of this city discovered such healing blood... and why it had a beast-like problem. Of course, it might simply be a coincidence, but only a fool would believe such a thing. He sighed again, this time out of annoyance, and ran his fingers through his ivory hair, scratching at his scalp. This was such a pain.

At any rate, he wasn't going to complain. If he ended up facing a powerful monster, or if he got careless and got killed, he'd end up here. Perhaps this would be something of a blessing.

He didn't think much, especially when he heard the sound of wood creaking. Slowly, he turned his head, and saw motion within the darkness of the building. His grip on his sword became tighter, and slowly moved over to the Herald, eyes narrowing. Momentarily, a figure stepped out of the darkness, and out into the light. He could only express surprise when he saw their form. Though their face was obscured, they looked to be quite young, perhaps in their late teens, just barely beginning into their adolescence. Beneath the hood, he found golden hair that hid the left side of their face, but between the gaps, he found a pair of mismatched colors, much like the Herald herself. One was the deepest shade of red, and the other, the cold blue. In his hands were two weapons which left him astounded in confusion and left him blinking from the form of said weapons. One was a steal bar that was held in his hand, bearing a wooden blade that curved around the hilt, bearing sharp, jagged edges with cloth wrapped around it. At the point where the blade and the bar intersected, a hinge was located, as if meaning the blade could extend. In the other hand was a large firearm with a wide muzzle, which he somehow managed to recognize as something akin to something called a shotgun, the blunderbuss.

The two stared at each other, one glaring at the other. They viewed each other with suspicion and danger. To Lelouch, he saw the red splatters across his form, and the dangerous gleam reflected in his bloody red eye, the eye that was exposed to him. He was wild, feral almost, and would attack when given the opportunity. To the hooded boy, he saw an unknown, a figure without a name with a blade, his stench nothing but blood and rotting flesh. It was clear that, to the both of them, they were dangerous... and they needed to die.

One of them needed to **die**.

 **A/N: Merry Christmas, everybody, and may you all have a wonderful New Year!**


End file.
